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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26869381">A Moment of Weakness</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoshizora/pseuds/yoshizora'>yoshizora</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Xenoblade Chronicles 2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, Post-Canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 19:06:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,370</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26869381</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoshizora/pseuds/yoshizora</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Mòrag makes a proposition concerning the subject of marriage.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Brighid/Mòrag Ladair</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>76</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Moment of Weakness</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>they're already married but ykno</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Brighid, what are your thoughts on marriage?”</p><p>They’ve just come out of a meeting. Senators are still filing out of the room, and one who apparently overheard gives them a curious glance before deciding it’s none of his business and continuing on his way. At least Niall and Aegaeon are out of earshot; their attention is occupied by someone else speaking to them, at the other side of the council chamber.</p><p>Brighid tries very, very hard not to grimace. She crosses her arms and drums her fingers, pretending to contemplate the question.</p><p>Mòrag might not have even been asking like <em>that.</em></p><p>Or she could be, because she definitely would.</p><p>“Why do you ask, Lady Mòrag?”</p><p>“It would be nice,” Mòrag absentmindedly says. She isn’t even looking at Brighid, instead watching Niall and that other senator conversing, maybe reading the senator’s lips to make sure he isn’t trying to wheedle a favor out of His Majesty. “Don’t you think?”</p><p>“I… I suppose.”</p><p>Mòrag nods, as if that was supposed to be a definite “yes” to whatever sort of proposal she intended her question to be. “Excellent. Let’s continue this discussion tomorrow.”</p><p><em>She could have at least waited until the room was empty,</em> Brighid thinks to herself.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Despite the world now being at peace, there’s very little time for personal luxuries. In a way, their lives haven’t changed much at all. They may no longer be traveling around the world with children or fighting against an apocalyptic threat, but Mòrag’s daily agenda had simply shifted from being occupied by traveling and battles to council meetings and diplomatic summits.</p><p>Brighid had always been the more selfish of the two. She would argue that they’ve deserved at least a week or two off to lounge about and do nothing, but Mòrag simply dusted herself off and continued striding forward after they landed in Elysium. Such an admirable attitude, and infuriating all the same.</p><p>Then Mòrag had the gall to ask <em>that question.</em></p><p>Of course Brighid had thought of marriage! They both have. But Mòrag was too reluctant to tread that thin line between her work life and personal life, and so their relationship simply stayed put, perfect as it was. Besides, marriage is just a paper and some records tucked away into the depths of Ardainian bureaucracy. The Urayans don’t even have marriage records, just word of mouth and promises engraved in tombstones. The Leftherians… well, who knows what sort of quaint marriage traditions the Leftherians have?</p><p>The day is brilliantly sunny and warm. Not hot and arid and dusty like the old Mor Ardain, but just… warm. Brighid’s dress whips around her ankles as a sea breeze stirs the sand. The air is brisk with salt and kelp.</p><p>Mòrag, for once, doesn’t wear her uniform. Today, she wears a smart button-up and slacks, not quite formal and not quite casual. Brighid watches her push a wooden boat across the sand and up to the lapping waves, seafoam splashing against the toes of her boots. A part of Mor Ardain had splintered off its body and crashed into the sea, too far to reach by swimming but close enough to see from the shoreline. That little island is to be their destination, Mòrag had said.</p><p>“When I said you should take a day off, this isn’t quite what I had in mind,” Brighid mildly says.</p><p>Mòrag wipes her forehead with the back of her hand and gestures for Brighid to climb into the boat. “I only wanted to spend time with you.”</p><p>“I was thinking more along the lines of coffee at a local café or finding some books to read together.” But Brighid smiles, accepting Mòrag’s offered hand. “Wouldn’t chartering a Titan ship be less of a hassle than this?”</p><p>Mòrag’s brow furrows. “A Titan ship would lack privacy.” A pause. “… There would be a helmsman. And guards. I don’t want anyone to interrupt us.”</p><p>The discussion drops there as Mòrag begins to shove the boat out into the water. Her slacks are already soaked up to her knees, but she doesn’t seem to care.</p><p>Little things like that seemed to have stopped bothering her ever since they arrived in this new world. Brighid had seen the gradual unwinding of those taut springs, the loosening knots in her muscles, telltale signs that Mòrag is adjusting to peace in her own ways.</p><p>She really must be ready, then. For marriage. Even though they’ve pretty much been married in every way sans the official paperwork for years.</p><p>“The weather is nice,” Brighid murmurs. Mòrag had taken up the oars and is rowing, steadily pushing against the current and taking the boat further away from the safety of the shoreline.</p><p>“Yes, it is,” Mòrag simply says.</p><p>She’d almost forgotten what it was like to sit with Mòrag and enjoy her company in silence.</p><p>The ride is quiet and uneventful until something swells up beneath the boat. Brighid grabs the edge of the bench she’s sitting on, leaving scorch marks on the wood, while Mòrag jumps up to her feet with impeccable balance even as they’re rocked back and forth.</p><p>A Serprond bursts from the sea, mouth agape.</p><p>And Mòrag, driven by a culmination of trained reflex and instinct, raises her arms, forgetting that the things in her grasp are not the whipswords.</p><p>
  <em>”Hellfire!”</em>
</p><p>“Lady Mòrag, wait—“</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The oars are broken. That Serprond had been knocked cleanly over the head and swam away, but the oars are broken. Mòrag stares dejectedly at the splintered wood in her hands while Brighid pats out the fire she’d inadvertently started when she gripped the sides of the boat too tightly.</p><p>“Apologies. For getting carried away,” Mòrag says. “Are you alright, Brighid? That beast caused quite the stir.”</p><p>“I’m fine. You did act a bit more impulsively than usual, though,” Brighid says.</p><p>“Than <em>usual?</em>”</p><p>“Impatience had always been one of your vices. No offense, Lady Mòrag.” She reaches for the broken oar pieces, taking them from Mòrag. No use holding onto those. “Though I suppose I’m also at fault for not conjuring my swords for you quickly enough.”</p><p>“No, no, you’re not to blame,” Mòrag quickly says. “You’re right. I acted without thinking.”</p><p>The island isn’t too far away, but the currents aren’t going to be carrying them in the right direction. There’s a basket of food and water Brighid had the foresight to bring along, and there’d be a whole fleet searching for them should the Special Inquisitor go missing for more than a day, but…</p><p>Mòrag’s impatience is telling. Maybe she’d been thinking about that whole <em>marriage</em> thing more than Brighid thought. It’s not a big deal. It shouldn’t be. Mòrag doesn’t make a fuss over things like their relationship, she gets worked up over petty matters like arm wrestling and Argentum Monkfish.</p><p>“What exactly prompted you to think about marriage, if I may ask?”</p><p>It isn’t as though they’ve never talked about it before. They just didn’t see the need to have it down on paper, ceremony be damned. Is Mòrag <em>bored?</em> Could that be it?</p><p>She’s fiddling with the buttons on her shirt, undoing each one. “I simply thought— never mind, can we discuss this later? I’ll take us back to shore, Brighid. You have my word.”</p><p>“Oh, I see.” Brighid puts a hand to her chin, feigning surprise. “You wanted a romantic backdrop for a proper proposal.”</p><p>“Yes, I did!” Mòrag practically rips her shirt off once the last button is undone, and haphazardly folds it on her lap and sets it aside. She begins to pry her boots off. “I do realize I am not the most adept at finding the right words for these things, so I— the other day, when I brought it up in the council chambers—“</p><p>“Your timing was a little off, I will say.”</p><p>“Was it?”</p><p>Brighid nods.</p><p>“I’m <em>sorry.</em>”</p><p>She knows Mòrag genuinely means it, too. Brighid gently touches her face as she’s pulling her socks off; Mòrag freezes and looks up at her, eyes wide, one sock in each hand.</p><p>“I… I want to marry you, Brighid.” She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment as if she’s in pain. No— she’s just… embarrassed. “I imagined this to go very differently…”</p><p>“You don’t need to be romantic for my sake, Mòrag,” Brighid softly says. She cups her face for a moment, before her hands move down to Mòrag’s hips, urging her to stand. Brighid slowly unbuckles her belt, pushing down the temptation to laugh. “You just caught me off guard yesterday, that’s all. Why don’t you give me your proposal once we’re on dry land?”</p><p>“V-Very well.” Mòrag nods, breathing notably faster now. She allows Brighid to pull her slacks down and steps out of them, now wearing nothing but her undergarments.</p><p>They share a kiss before Mòrag hops over the side and into the water, swimming around to the rear side to push the boat back toward the shoreline.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The sun is beginning to brush against the sea’s horizon by the time Mòrag feels sand beneath her feet. She shoves the boat onto the beach with a mighty heave, and promptly finds a suitable patch of sand to flop down and catch her breath, nose and throat stinging from the saltwater. The afternoon warmth is long gone, replaced by the brisk chill of the approaching evening.</p><p>Brighid crouches beside her and extends her hands to provide warmth. Mòrag gratefully smiles, too tired to lift her arms.</p><p>“If you’d like, we can postpone that conversation until tomorrow,” Brighid offers.</p><p>Mòrag shakes her head, not at all bothered by the sand now making its way into her hair, the strands freed from its tie sometime during her swim. Or she’s just too exhausted to care. “There’s no better time than now, Brighid.”</p><p>While she’s half-naked and covered in sand and completely out of breath? Well, sure. Brighid sits beside her, knees pulled up to her chest. They’re on an idyllic beach in a new world, with no hovering guards or statesmen or civilians to gawk. Behind them are nothing but forests, through which Alba Cavanich is nestled a good half hour’s walk away. No one is going to be bothering them out here; maybe Mòrag actually isn’t wrong about the timing being right.</p><p>The sky is cast in gentle hues of fiery, pinkish oranges as the sun dips lower. It’s somehow different from the sunset they’ve grown to be familiar with in Alrest.</p><p>So. Marriage.</p><p>“You never did answer my question. What made you think about marriage so suddenly?” Brighid says. Their relationship is as strong as ever. Pandoria and Zeke had always been loudly envious of how their affinity link would burst into brilliant gold at the very start of battles. There are no doubts between them whatsoever; the idea of marriage had only been a formality, one that neither Mòrag nor Brighid ever had a particularly strong opinion on.</p><p>Until now, apparently.</p><p>"I would not call it <em>sudden</em>... the idea of living without you does not appeal to me," Mòrag recites, an uncharacteristic glint in her eye. "<em>That </em>is when I had realized."</p><p>She can't find any good response to that, bringing a hand up to her chest by reflex. If she were to ignite their affinity link at this moment, Mòrag would burst into flames from the excess.</p><p>Then Mòrag clears her throat, and Brighid realizes she likely had a speech prepared.</p><p>“I have always… harbored uncertainties about myself and the path I chose… although I- I may exude confidence, I—“ Mòrag coughs. “Without you by my side, Brighid, I would be utterly lost, and so…”</p><p>Oh, no, she’s fumbling. She must be too tired to recite the speech properly. Brighid squeezes her hand encouragingly, no longer watching the sunset.</p><p>“Take your time, Mòrag. I’m not going anywhere.”</p><p>“I am not nearly as strong as I would like to be, at times. But only you would accept me in all my weakness, without making me feel ashamed for it.”</p><p>Mòrag sits up with a slight groan, rivulets of water dripping down her front. She reaches for Brighid’s other hand. In spite of everything, in spite of the ridiculousness of this entire situation, it's... </p><p>Perfect. </p><p>Marriage truly is nothing but a few official documents to be filed away. For a Driver and Blade, particularly those of Ardainian origins, it's even less. They need neither the titles nor the ceremonies nor ostentatious tradition to play off one after the other from the <em>engagement</em> to the <em>wedding</em> but. If not for themselves, then to carve the permanence of their bond into Ardainian history. Let the generations to come know of them.</p><p>The Jewel of Mor Ardain, wed to Special Inquisitor Mòrag Ladair. It does have a nice sound to it, Brighid thinks.</p><p>"You're not weak. Never weak," Brighid says, nearly breathless, squeezing her hands. </p><p>“… I am, Brighid. I am weak, to my own desires," Mòrag says. She's still slightly out of breath; no doubt her heart is racing faster than it ever has before. There's a peculiar look on her face, one which Brighid had never seen.</p><p>Oh. Brighid had never seen Mòrag this happy.</p><p>"I would only ask, if you would grant me the privilege of… being known as your wife." </p><p>Such ridiculous phrasing! Without thinking twice, she throws herself upon Mòrag to fully kiss her on the mouth, knocking her back down onto the sand.</p><p>
  <em>”Yes.”</em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The council chamber fills for another day of sorting out policies and discussing the state of things, and the mundane, and the usual. Except... not quite the usual. There's one seat by the head of the table left empty, which doesn't fail to escape notice.</p><p>“Your Majesty?” One of the senators pipes up, glancing around. “Where is the Special Inquisitor? Should she not be present by now?”</p><p>Niall clears his throat. “Special Inquisitor Mòrag has taken a leave of absence for one month.”</p><p>“One month?!” The room is abuzz now, heads leaning in to mutter amongst each other. “May we know why?”</p><p>“Well, she is on her honeymoon. With Lady Brighid,” Niall says, unable to stop himself from smiling. Behind him, Aegaeon softly claps.</p><p>Hah, the looks on all their faces.</p>
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